


talking like I’m falling down stairs

by photographlessPhantasm



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Based on a song, Fluff, It's all fluff, M/M, Rambling, metaphorical nonsense, so fucking cute it hurts man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 21:45:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/854373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/photographlessPhantasm/pseuds/photographlessPhantasm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You talk too much."</p>
<p>"... Yeah, I know."</p>
<p>[ :B A ficlet based on the song by sparkadia of the same name ]</p>
            </blockquote>





	talking like I’m falling down stairs

**Author's Note:**

> because dave seems to have this modus of speech on all the time
> 
> dude
> 
> dude
> 
> shhhhhh shhhhhh, holy shit
> 
> could be a introspective on Dave's relationship with John in the [sugarcoated] universe,   
> but fuck, that's not posted yet, and it's not johndave, so I should shut up
> 
> :B onwards to ficletland, onwards yonder reader

###  like I'm _falling_ down stairs . . .

Your thoughts are drifting, even as you speak, mouth roaming while your brain goes on to think about other things.

You can already feel the dull thunk of marble greeting the back of your skull, fabric dragging at your clothes, bruises forming with each thud...

_it keeps happening, it keeps happening, it keeps happening..._

Half the time you’re not really sure what flies out of your mouth, only the point or idea you’d meant to present in the process remaining as your guidepost. The most simplistic statement, like, _John told me about it, he was snooping, which was wrong, yeah,_ can turn into a meandering gaggle of run on sentences that proclaim that _John was the offending party to whom snooped underneath your bedclothes and discovered wizard slash, certainly not me, and I’d be more than glad to intervene on Your behalf to tell John that he should really to place restrictions on his sleuthing behaviors within the house of a friend._

Your mouth, and often your fingers, riddle forth ridiculous amounts of babble that amount to a clusterfuck hurricane of words that often pirouette off the handle and utterly dazzles the public to your twisted delight and frantic panic. You are the star struck cool kid who has fallen in love with his first southern belle; or, rather, your mouth is.

You are serious here.

Your brain suffers for your art, you swear, and this is the result.

You are the guy who’s mouth continues to spout forth bullshit and nonsense, and you’re trying so damn hard to continue to act the smooth gentleman, so much so that you’ve got the swagger to pull it off, but, honestly, you don’t know when to fucking stop, and you’re probably just alienating the poor southern belle whom you find incredibly funny, intelligent, and beautiful.

God, she’s beautiful. You could ramble all night, if it meant she stuck around...

... erh....

You have another metaphor for this, which is shittier and more of a joke, to which equates to the point of the Hella Jeff and Sweet Bro comic that features one of them falling down the stairs, continuously. _bang, bang, bang, bang, it keeps happening, bro..._

You sing like a hurricane, or, well, at least rap that way.

Your ability to strife is pretty sweet, if you do say so yourself.

You walk with the swag of a thousand cowboy gods, but, you talk... well...

You talk like you’re banging your head against each stair, like you’re trying to get your sentences out as fast as you bloody can so you can make your point and make sure everything is fucking cool and everything is fine and dandy and with emphasis and pointed statements and flying off the damn handle-

“You talk too much.”

You’re glad for the guys who tell you that you should shut your mouth every once and a while. You’re very glad for the guy who shouts, _I warned you about the stairs, bro._ You are so damn glad when a southern belle gets in your face and actually says _you’re cute, but seriously, shut the fuck up for a second_

You flick your eyes up at him, pushing your glasses against your face as your smirk.

“... Yeah, I know.”

You slowly pull yourself back up, pushing a hand through your bloodied hair and smiling up at the dork on the stairwell. He offers you a hand with a roll of his eyes. You both decent up the stairwell once more, hand in hand, words dancing in tandem.

The thought of the threat underfoot tumbles away, your conciseness pleased with every step you make.

Words glide like figure-skaters softly carving up the ice with their mad skills, weaving themselves between you, watching you climb.

While there is no staircase which you ascend, while you are not bleeding, while you are not a cool guy and there's no southern belle at a fancy-ass ball meeting you for the first time, _while your hands are not entangled in his..._

Every sentence is a step, every breath is a smile, every glance is a declaration.

Your glasses are soon perched upon the table, every wall surrendered.

_Here, there is a dork sitting across from you, keeping you from falling down the stairs._


End file.
